Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Today. I’m pausing. And choosing. To break through wherever I’m hostile
The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
Days and nights of pines and stars. Of blue bays, white schooners, top-down
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
